The Age of Men
by thewildernessyears
Summary: The Reunited Kingdoms have enjoyed peace and prosperity following the battle for Middle Earth, but a new shadow is forming in the distance. King Eldarion must rally a Fellowship in order to secure the lands once more against the growing threat of evil. FOURTH AGE - Tolkien characters as well as original characters.
1. A New Shadow (Prologue)

Eldarion stood at the summit of Minas Tirith, gazing east over the White City toward Osgiliath the way his father Aragorn in life had done. He would call Eldarion to him, lift the boy onto his shoulders, and the two would survey this hard-won land that would one day pass into his care. As a child he could hardly believe the tales his uncles Merry and Pippin had told of the War of the Ring and the horrors of Mordor. Aragorn always said their stories were exaggerated, though the hobbits told them with the gravest of faces between puffs on their pipes. Aragorn comforted his son, telling him whatever evil dwelled to the east was destroyed. Long had Orodruin lay dormant beyond those jagged peaks. And indeed Gondor had enjoyed a time of peace, prospering again under King Elessar's reign. The black mountains had been imposing, yes, but as Eldarion grew into adulthood he no longer felt nor feared their shadow.

When Eldarion first took over the Reunited Kingdom all was calm. But trouble weighed heavy on his mind, for in recent days out of the eastern ruins of Mordor a thin grey stream of smoke pierced the sky like a pointed tail. He watched it now, blue eyes focused intently on the horizon, and as the cold wind blew west from Ephel Dúath, a sinister whisper came with it.

It had been slithering on the air for weeks. At first Eldarion brushed it aside. After all, it was not a voice he recognized or understood, and the whisper itself was so soft that he wondered if it wasn't just a trick of his imagination. But as the days went on the whisper grew stronger and more frequent. Eldarion couldn't ignore it — his skin prickled and his head pounded each time his ears caught the sound. He sought counsel in Emyn Arnen with Elboron, son of Faramir and Prince of Ithilien. But Elboron was in ill health and could not hear the whisper. Eldarion was reluctant to add to his burden, especially for a feeling of unease he could not fully explain.

No one else seemed to notice the shift. Life continued in Minas Tirith as it had for ages. Most of the elves were gone, having sailed west into the Undying Lands. Those that were left were reclusive and far from Gondor, as were the dwarves. Gandalf was departed; Radagast and the Blue Wizards Alatar and Pallando had not been seen or heard from in ages. There were none to turn to. There could be no Council of Elrond to call upon. What to do? Where to seek help? Eldarion was king, but without his father to guide him he felt powerless. Aragorn had only been gone for two years and Arwen for one, and already Eldarion felt a storm brewing. Yet no one else sensed it. Was he losing his mind?

With a sigh he pressed his palms against the smooth stone bannister and hung his head, long hair falling across his clean-shaven face. Orodruin's power had been tied to Sauron's and thus had also been vanquished after the destruction of the One Ring, or so Eldarion thought. So how could Mount Doom be awakening once more?

Around him the air grew dense, filling his lungs with a heavy chill. Eldarion's eyes shut tightly as he gripped his forehead, attempting to steady himself against the pounding in his temples. The whisper came again, venomous, as clear as if someone were standing right behind him, breathing into his ear.

_Mog_, it hissed.


	2. On the Horizon (Ch 1)

"Uncle?"

Head spinning, Eldarion turned swiftly to see his niece Arestel approaching. She was a near spitting image of his mother Arwen, except for her bright green eyes and auburn hair that hung down her back in a fishtail braid. Barefoot, she stepped lightly across the stone path, her long white gown trailing behind her.

"Uncle," Arestel said again, concern spreading across her face as she held Eldarion's arm to steady him. "Are you all right? What troubles you?"

Eldarion righted himself, waved off this precious daughter of his sister Aramiel. Arestel had never known her elvish father. Eldarion considered her as his own, helping to raise her and train her in the skills of fighting. She was beautiful and slight, and though she was equally deadly with a dagger and a bow, he wanted always to protect her.

"It's nothing," he said. But Arestel frowned and took a step closer, her grip tightening around his arm. From the corner of her eye she saw movement: a man of Gondor approaching Minas Tirith on horse from the south. He stuck closely to the Anduin, and his pace was urgent.

"Uncle," she said again, her voice low and soothing. She slipped easily into the elvish tongue. "You don't seem yourself as of late. What news did you bring to Prince Elboron in Emyn Arnen the other day?"

Eldarion turned his hard gaze back toward Mordor. Arestel stood beside him, shuddering as she too caught sight of the smoke behind the mountains. "The wind grows colder," she whispered, "and the voice louder with it."

Eldarion did not look at her. He braced himself once more on the stone railing. "You have heard this voice?"

"Yes," she said, reaching for the end of her braid. She wound the hair tightly around her fingers, a nervous tic. "I do not understand what it says, though it fills my heart and head with such grief to hear it. Such a foul, harsh tongue."

Young though she was Arestel was not a child anymore. Eldarion's sister Aramiel would not approve of her child's involvement in this matter, but what if another war was on the horizon? Could Arestel — could anyone — be shielded from it? He said finally, "I fear it means our time of peace may soon be over. I can't say what is happening or why, but I feel it."

The two stood silently together for a moment, watching the wispy tail. It hung suspended in the sky like a sharp dagger. Growing worry seized in Arestel's chest. She wished at once her grandfather were here, some old friend or ally to call upon. Someone who could put a name to this ominous appearance. But anyone who might know had long passed away, or departed to the Undying Lands, never to return to Middle Earth.

"Beg your pardon, Your Majesty." Eldarion and Arestel turned to see an elderly, brown-clad herald approaching from the White Tree. "Prince Éromir has arrived from Emyn Arnen."

Éromir, son of Elboron and grandson of Faramir, emerged from the darkened shadow of a stone archway of the courtyard. His clothes were travel-worn; his light brown hair and beard were unkempt, his grey eyes weary. He bowed graciously. "King Eldarion," he said, voice low and strong. "Lady Arestel."

Arestel stood a distance behind her uncle and cast her eyes to the ground. Eldarion gripped Éromir's hand. "Welcome, Son of Elboron," he said. "I was not expecting you. What brings you to the White City?"

"My father wished me here. He said you had visited on urgent business, but he feared he was not able to offer proper counsel to you in your time of need," the man said. "He asked me to come in his stead. Forgive me for not arriving sooner, I am just returned from my patrol of South Gondor. My men and I ran into a resistance group of Haradrim."

The king shook his head and sighed. Much of the kingdom and surrounding lands lived in peace, but even throughout Aragorn's reign there were outcroppings that remained loyal to Sauron. "None were lost, I hope?"

"Not on our side," Éromir admitted, clearing his throat. "Though it does me no pleasure to report this to you. These rebel Haradrim were on the move to Rhûn."

"To Rhûn?" Eldarion mused. He rubbed his chin. "On what business? Why risk exposure by traveling through Gondor?"

"Of what business I am not certain, My Lord, though my guess is they wished to avoid the deserts of Khand. Conditions there are harsh."

"Indeed." Eldarion gestured toward the fortress. "Let us retreat to the Great Hall where I might speak with you about present matters."

Eldarion turned to his niece. "Arestel," he said in Elvish, "do not trouble yourself any further with this matter. I will speak now with Éromir and we will devise a plan."

"I will join you," Arestel protested, but Eldarion held up his hand. With that he and Éromir disappeared inside the citadel, leaving Arestel to herself in the courtyard. She paced angrily around the White Tree. Hadn't she too heard the voice? Couldn't she offer counsel? Once more she looked over her shoulder toward Mordor. If peace was truly over then all those who could fight to reclaim it should fight. And she herself, so keen with a knife and bow, could fight.

In her clenched fists Arestel gathered up the folds of her long white dress and took off nimbly for the Great Hall.


	3. A New Plan (Ch 2)

Character Reference:

**Eldarion** — King of the Reunited Kingdoms; son of Aragorn & Arwen; brother of Aramiel; uncle of Arestel

**Arestel** — Daughter of Aramiel & unknown elf father; granddaughter of Arwen & Aragorn; niece of Eldarion

**Elboron** — Steward to the King of Gondor; son of Faramir & Éowyn; father of Barahir & Éromir

**Éromir** — Prince of Ithilien; son of Elboron; grandson of Faramir & Éowyn; younger brother of Barahir

—

Éromir ran a calloused hand through his tangled hair. He was on edge; it was not often he found himself in the Great Hall. Around him loomed white stone arches and buttresses, from which hung silky banners bearing the symbol of Gondor. They rustled every now and then with a passing draft.

"My King," Éromir began slowly. "If what you speak is true — that the time of great peace is over — then we must act, and swiftly."

Eldarion leaned against his chair, high-backed and made of wood and mithril, a great gift from Gimli and the dwarves to Aragorn not long after his ascension. He sat across from Éromir, elbows propped on the smooth arms of his chair, his hands folded at his chest. "Act we must, yes," he said, "but not with haste. There are no clear signs."

"No clear signs?" Éromir cried, nearly leaping from his seat. "Smoke on the horizon, a foul breath on the air, these are not sign enough? You must send your men to Mordor, now!"

Eldarion closed his eyes. "Éromir, no one has heard this voice but Arestel and me, and what it says I do not know. A whisper is hardly reason enough to send a cadre of men to an uncertain fate. Though Sauron has been vanquished from Mordor and Orodruin reduced to a shell, the land is still dangerous. I would not send my men where I myself dare not go."

"But surely it cannot be so treacherous, not after all this time?" Éromir protested.

"Do you so easily forget Minas Ithil? Its history is shadowed still by the Morgul Vale and will be for some time yet. Recovery is not so simple. That is why my father had it razed, why it remains barren to this day."

Éromir was offering advice as best he could. How was he to proceed then with an indecisive king? Feeling wholly ineffective he pounded the arm of his own chair with a tight fist. "And what counsel did my father provide? Or was he, too, disregarded?"

The king now looked at Éromir, blue eyes piercing into grey. "Be careful, Prince of Ithilien," Eldarion warned low in his throat. "Do not test my patience by losing your own."

Éromir swallowed thickly. "Forgive me, King Eldarion. I mean no disrespect."

"Faramir, Steward of Gondor was my father's most valued ally. This heritage of trust between our families remains strong, and it is a great weight I assign to Elboron's words, as well as yours." Eldarion paused, then continued: "Elboron has suggested we keep sentry along the Ash Mountains and Mountains of Shadow, nothing more yet. In the meantime he advised we assemble a council, one to carry on the legacy of the Nine."

The Nine: all in the Fourth Age knew their legend well. The Nine were the last great alliance of men, elves, dwarves, wizards, and hobbits. But since the destruction of the One Ring and the diminishment of the elves, such an alliance now seemed impossible. The dwarves returned to their mining, scattered throughout the far-flung mountains. No elves had been seen in the two years since Aragorn departed and Legolas set out with Gimli for the Undying Lands. Rumors of elves that had stayed behind seemed nothing more than just that.

Éromir sat rigid and clapped his right palm over his heart in a salute. "I will serve Gondor in whatever capacity you deem for me, King Eldarion. I will lead our strongest men and fight off any threat that attempts to cross our borders."

"I have no doubt in you, Son of Elboron, or your skill as a soldier. But I must ask something different. I wish for you to assume your father's place in the new council. I will travel west to Eriador, to the Shire, and I request for you to accompany me."

"Eriador," the prince breathed. "That is a long way. Could we not send others for this task? Is it wise for you to remove yourself from the kingdom?"

"Once," answered Eldarion, "Shire-folk made all the difference to Gondor and to Middle Earth. We owe them our proper respect. I feel my father would do the same. I have faith in our men to protect the land in our absence."

The king continued: "I've heard rumor that the heir of Thorin Stonehelm has traveled from the Iron Hills to the Glittering Caves, near Helm's Deep."

"Heir of Thorin Stonehelm," Éromir mused. "Durin Ironhelm?"

"Aye," said Eldarion. "Durin Ironhelm, Durin the Deathless as he is known. On our way west we will search for him and ask him to join us in our quest."

"To the Shire? Is his presence necessary there?"

Eldarion shook his head. "Not just to the Shire. We go also to Rivendell in search of elves."

At that moment Arestel burst from the shadows, her long, red braid whipping behind her as she ran. "I will go with you!" she cried, her words echoing determinedly throughout the Great Hall.

Eldarion and Éromir abruptly stood. "Arestel!" Eldarion said, and Éromir slowly relaxed the hand that had instinctively reached up to grip the hilt of his sword. "How long have you been hiding there? You are intruding on matters that do not concern you."

"The livelihood of my people, the security of my home, these matters should not concern me?" she demanded, steadying her voice.

"Aramiel would never allow it."

"I care not what my mother would or would not allow," Arestel said. "I will follow you anywhere. If you deny me this then you will have to lock me away in a cell."

"You are too young to understand—"

"Forgive me, Uncle, but it is you who does not understand." Arestel squared her shoulders. "We must do all we can. I may be young but I understand well the cost of Gondor, and I am willing to pay for it with my life." A few feet away Éromir watched her, and though he betrayed no expression, inwardly he felt a surge of pride in her. But Arestel's heart pounded. Never before had she been so forceful with her uncle, but she could never forgive herself for not doing everything possible to protect the kingdom. In the silence she found herself painfully aware of Éromir's presence, and her resolve briefly faltered. To have spoken to Eldarion that way in front of the Prince of Ithilien—

Eldarion softened. "You are right, Arestel," he said in elvish. He approached her and took her hands in his. "My precious niece. Your grandfather would be very proud of you." He turned to Éromir. Switching to the common tongue, he said, "Return now to Emyn Arnen. Tell your father of what we have spoken. Assemble five groups of soldiers and send them to patrol the western range of Ephel Dúath. In two weeks' time return to Minas Tirith, and we three will set out for the Glittering Caves."

"I will do as you say," Éromir said and bowed to both Eldarion and Arestel before departing the citadel and riding with renewed energy for Emyn Arnen.


	4. Stewards of Gondor (Ch 3)

Character Reference:

**Eldarion** — King of the Reunited Kingdoms; son of Aragorn & Arwen; brother of Aramiel; uncle of Arestel

**Arestel** — Daughter of Aramiel & unknown elf father; granddaughter of Aragorn & Arwen; niece of Eldarion

**Elboron** — Steward to the King of Gondor; son of Faramir & Éowyn; father of Barahir & Éromir

**Éromir** — Prince of Ithilien; son of Elboron; grandson of Faramir & Éowyn; younger brother of Barahir

**Barahir** — Prince of Ithilien; son of Elboron; grandson of Faramir & Éowyn; older brother of Éromir

—

Barahir sat under the shade of an old tree, the leafy branches shielding his fair skin from the sun as they stretched high and fanned out above him. In his lap was a green leather-bound book, in which he had been writing for over a year. It was closed now, resting on his knee as he paused from his task and pushed the blonde hair from his face, taking a moment to gaze across the hill at the Anduin. White foam danced on the blue surface of the rapids at a bend in the river, and Barahir sighed. What a beautiful land they dwelled in; how stark the knife-like plume of smoke was behind him against the expansive sky. He dared not look east for fear of despair.

This elder son of Elboron looked back to his writing. Long had he admired Frodo's legendary account of the War of the Ring, and long had he yearned to write an epic of his own. Barahir wanted to pay tribute to the late king and queen and thus had begun _The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen_. His composition was nearly finished, and while he was proud of the work he'd done, he shivered to think a new tale already might be on the horizon, one just as dark and sinister as King Elessar and the Nine had faced in the Third Age.

The sharp blast of a horn startled Barahir from his thoughts. He stood now, catching glimpse of his younger brother Éromir galloping on horseback for the bridge that would lead him across the Anduin and into Emyn Arnen. The bridge had been a gift to Prince Faramir in the days after the War, commissioned by King Elessar of the dwarves of the Glittering Caves. Made of shining mithril bricks, the bridge arched over the river, reflecting the last glints of the evening sun as Éromir raced across. Guards at either end sounded their horns and saluted as he rode past. Barahir gathered his book and quill and set off down the hill toward the palace. Though nowhere near the staggering structure that was Minas Tirith, the Steward Palace — nestled in a narrow space between two sloping hills — was still a marvel to behold. Gilded arches rose with the wood and stone façade; inside the halls were hung with Gondorian flags and banners of the finest silk, and tapestries bearing the long and rich line of the House of Húrin. Barahir lived there with his father and brother; his mother had died when Barahir was eight and Éromir just five.

"Brother!" Éromir called out from the the top of the long stone staircase where he stood just outside the great entrance. When Barahir made it to the top the siblings embraced. To see them together was to witness opposites at their most: the elder Barahir, tall and slender, fair, clean-faced and bookish; the younger Éromir, rugged and solid, strong-willed, a soldier and a fighter. Though Éromir with his commanding presence seemed more suitable for the throne, it was Barahir who would be Prince Elboron's heir, a task which loomed heavy on his mind.

"You have long been away," Barahir said with a smile. "It's good to see you home."

"And you," answered Éromir. "I did not see you when first I arrived, before Father sent me on to Minas Tirith. He said you had gone off on your labor again."

Barahir tapped his book lightly against his palm. "Yes, a labor of love, I'm afraid. But it's nearly finished."

Éromir reached out and squeezed his brother's shoulder. A somber look overtook his face. "That is wonderful indeed, Barahir, and I am certain your scholarly toils will please King Eldarion. But you must know with the appearance just beyond the mountains that it is not safe to wander far."

"Nothing has been sighted yet. And who would dare venture into these hills?" Barahir argued. "Besides, you cannot expect me to stay locked inside the palace. I have need of the sun, the air, the Anduin."

"And Ithilien has need of its heir." Éromir sighed. "I have seen who would enter these hills, Brother. Before I left for Minas Tirith I told Father of a troubling encounter during my patrol. My men and I intercepted a group of Haradrim. They are on the move, Barahir, toward Rhûn. But to what I do not know. There are still those loyal to the evils that once took haven in Mordor, and they would do what they can to see Gondor and its people destroyed. You _must_ take care."

Barahir looked away, annoyed. Perhaps he wasn't as skilled a fighter as his brother, but he wasn't helpless. Éromir spoke as if he were the elder and Barahir were a child to be protected.

"Come," Éromir said as he put his arm around Barahir. "Let us go inside and meet with Father. I have news from King Eldarion you both must hear."

The brothers pushed hard on the iron and wooden doors, stepping into the sun-streaked entrance of the Steward Palace. They made down a long corridor toward the rostrum where Elboron sat, the banners inscribed with the names of their forefathers stirring as they went.


End file.
